


Birthday Wishes

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Childhood, F/M, Fluff, kid frary, kid frary is just the best, like i can't handle them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Mary’s seventh birthday, and, like any seven year old, she’s anxious to receive her presents, especially from a certain blond prince. Francis is anxious to give her his present, if only to shut her up. Just some kid Frary fluff (ugh, that’s like my favorite. They were so cute).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> Oops. This started out as a really short fluff fic. And then it grew. And grew. It’s currently my second longest fic. Which is pretty sad, but hey. I only write oneshots with no plots most of the time, so. I’m not entirely sure why I only referred to Mary as “the girl” and Francis as “the boy”. It felt right, and it was almost like I was stressing that, at this point in their lives, they’re Just a Girl and Just a Boy, which is my absolute dream for Francis and Mary. Big apology if Francis and Mary didn't sound like kids; my sister (who acted as my sort of kind of maybe beta JUST THIS ONCE, dude) gave me hell about it, but it seemed kind of okay to me. So a grudging credit to whilemyfandomsgentlyweep for her lovely beta skills that shatter what little self-esteem I have (just kidding, bro, you don't shatter. You maim or seriously injure).

“It’s my birthday,” the girl says pointedly.

The boy sighs. It has been her birthday for hours now, and she won’t shut up about it. “Yes,” he says tiredly. “Happy birthday.”

“Are you going to give me a present?”

“ _Yes_.” He sighs again.

She beams happily. “What is it?”

“The point of birthday presents is to surprise someone.” He can’t actually remember how many times he’s said this to her, but it’s far past any number he can count on his fingers.

“So? I like presents.” The girl is easy to read, making no attempts to hide her unhappiness. Which seems to be her birthday gift to him. He’s just that lucky.

“ _So…_ I can’t give you the present until it’s time.”

She crosses her arms, a frown puckering her lips. “When’s it _time_? I’ve already turned seven. Can’t you just give it to me now?”

“No.”

“ _Why_?” she whines, her eyebrows furrowing.

_Not_ again, the boy thinks. “ _Because_ ,” he answers not-so-patiently.

“That’s not an _answer_.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s _not_.”

“I used it to answer your question, so it must be an answer,” the boy says in a slow voice, employing the same tone his father uses when he talks to the mentally slow. Or anyone, really.

The girl glowers at him, her eyes murderous. “It is _not_ an answer,” she growls, balling her small hands into fists tight in her dress. She’s wrinkled her birthday frock, as well as spilled a few drops of blueberry jam on it from breakfast. The boy wonders why her caretakers are so enthusiastic about making her wear white; it just makes her messes look worse.

There’s no point in trying to reason with her, not on most days and certainly not on her birthday, but he tries anyway. “ _Fine_. Then I’ll give you a better one. I’m supposed to present my gift to you during the feast.”

“Why?” Her glare is magically replaced by wide eyes and a mouth gaped in wonder.

The boy grits his teeth. “ _Because_.”

“Because _why_?”

She’s so irritating. He wants to pulverize her, but he won’t because not only is he not supposed to hit girls, he’s not sure he’d be the one to come out unscathed in a fight. So he clenches his jaw and says, “Because that’s how birthday celebrations go in France.”

She crosses her arms again, cocking a black eyebrow critically. “That’s not how they go in _Scotland_ ,” she reminds him needlessly. Of _course_ that’s not how birthday celebrations go in Scotland, because, as far as he can tell, Scotland is immeasurably better than France at any and all things.

She waits for him to respond, but when he doesn’t, she takes it upon herself to describe celebrations in her homeland. He stops listening. If he had a franc for every time she’s told him this…well. He’d be richer than his mother. 

“…and the birthday celebrator gets to open their presents _whenever_ they want…”

The boy is relatively sure that birthday celebrations in Scotland do not, in fact, actually go this way. But when there is a tiny, snappy girl who also happens to be the queen of the country, she probably gets her presents whenever she wants. She must have made out like a bandit on big holidays. _Lucky_ , the boy thinks sullenly. He usually receives books and capes. Although, once, he’d received a sword. That had been exciting.

“…The cake is delicious; whatever kind you want. And there’s a feast, and you don’t have to do anything the _whole_ day…” She goes on and on, her voice dreamy as she remembers her birthdays.

“You get cake in France, and presents,” he points out, feeling he needs to defend his country.

She rolls her eyes, like he just doesn’t get it. “But it’s _different_ in Scotland.”

“The cake?”

“Everything, stupid!”

The boy frowns. “Don’t call me stupid.”

She smiles haughtily, her nose crinkling. “It’s my _birthday_ ; I can say whatever I want.”

His scowl deepens. If he acted this way on his birthday, he’d get sent to his rooms, that’s for certain. But no, because she is a girl and a queen, she gets practically everything she wants. Except her presents when she wants them. So not _exactly_ everything. The boy grins a secret grin.

The girl sighs heavily, ever impatient. “Is it nearly time yet?”

“For wha—Oh.” He glances at the sky, which is still a bright, sunny blue. “No. They won’t be ready for a while. That’s why they sent us outside to play, remember?”

“Of course I _remember_. I was only _asking_.” Another heavy sigh. A pause, and the boy braces himself for an onslaught of birthday woes.

“Can you give me a clue?” She smiles at him sweetly, as if forgetting that she called him stupid barely moments ago. She won’t give up. He’ll give her that, although he sorely wishes she’ll get bored with pestering him.

He studies her for several seconds. “No,” he decides. She doesn’t deserve even the slightest tidbit of information. Also, he wants to see her face when she reacts to being denied.

He’s not disappointed. She trades her angelic mask for an expression that makes the boy wonder whether she’s popped a vein in her face or if she’s just that enraged. He smothers a giggle. “Why _not_?” she hisses through tight, white lips.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Because I don’t have to.” He bites his lip, trying to hold his smile in check. She’s positively furious. She looks as though she might hit him, but she’s learned from her stay in court that there are always eyes around the castle, eyes that are always watching and waiting. And she knows that even she can’t get away with punching the dauphin of France in the face. Queen, birthday girl or not.

So she settles for words. “Yes, you _do_. It’s my _birthday_.”

“No, I don’t. It’s _my_ gift. And anyway, you don’t deserve a hint.”

She gapes at him. “But it’s my _birthday_ ,” she insists.

“I know,” he says flippantly. Not waiting to see (or rather, hear) her reaction, he pulls her by the hand, leading her to the tiny stream that runs behind the castle. She follows him, despite being irritated and angry at him. She will always follow anyone where she thinks there is fun to be had, mischief to be played out. But more importantly, she will always follow him.

“Where are we going?” she asks curiously.

“Somewhere you’ll forget it’s your birthday,” he grumbles. But a second later he tosses a sunny grin behind his shoulder, and she catches and returns it with an equally happy smile.

In reality, they end up sitting on the grass by the stream, the moisture slowly seeping into their clothes. But she does forget about her birthday. At least, she shuts up about it, and he’s grateful. Instead, they sit by the stream, trying to spot and catch frogs, playing with pebbles, splashing water and, naturally, making a fine mess. Her white (it was always white, thought the boy) dress is now speckled with brown dots, and he can see the faint pink glow of her body through the opaque sodden material, which intrigues him and gives him an odd red flush about the cheeks. Much to his surprise and discomfort.

Bored with their harassment of frogs, the girl flops back onto the wet grass, her damp hair fanning out behind her. She twirls a dandelion stem around her pointer finger, staring at the fuzzy yellow petals intently. She looks up at the boy suddenly. “Do you think if I make a wish on a dandelion my wish will come true?”

He leaves the stream in favor of a place by her side, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches. “Yes. I think so.” He peers at her inquisitively. “What’s your wish?”

She eyes him warily. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why?” he asks. Now he’s the one doing the badgering.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“ _Because_ then it won’t come true, silly.” She stops twirling the stem and turns her head to look at him. “Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t,” the boy says truthfully.

“Well, it’s true.”

The boy rests his head on the grass, shivering when the moisture creeps into his hair. They lie in silence, the boy listening to the chirps of songbirds, the quiet lap of the stream, the gentle whistle of air through nostrils. He sighs deeply, content. But nothing is content when you have Mary, Queen of Scots at your side. Not for long.

“Should I make a wish now?” she wonders out loud. Her voice shatters the peace of his tranquil world, and though he sighs heavily (this time in annoyance, or perhaps resignation) the interruption is not exactly unwelcome.

The boy pries open an eyelid. “I suppose.”

“What should I wish for?”

The boy laughs, closing his eyes. “I thought you couldn’t tell me any of your wishes.”

“Wishes? You mean I can make more than one?” She stops twirling the stem for a moment, intent on his information. She is immediately curious, as always.

“I suppose. It _is_ your birthday.” It seems only fair. An average person is given one wish, but someone whose birthday is the day they make a wish… _well_. Now, they should receive one extra wish.

She stands up shakily, touching her hand to the ground to boost herself. The yellow dandelion is still clutched in her hand. She scans the ground for an older dandelion, and grabs one by the stem as she spots it, careful not to waste any of the fuzzy gray seeds. She brings it to her lips painstakingly slowly. She pauses, her lips parted in a tiny O. “Do you want to make a wish with me?” she asks the boy quietly. Her words are whispered and timid, as if she’s afraid the force of them could send the dandelion fluff flying away from her, her wish still fresh on her mind.

The boy is surprised by her question. Surprised and pleased. A wish is a special thing. He sidles up to her very cautiously, keeping his eyes trained on the flower head. The girl and the boy exchange a look, lean down, and blow a fierce stream of air (and spit, which flies onto both faces) on the flower. The little fluff particles take off, leaping into the air with a lazy, whimsical grace. The two watch the scattered seeds in wonder, dreaming about their wish. There is a silence as they gaze into the sky, transfixed by the simple flight of flowers.

“Will you find me another?” Her voice cuts into the boy’s daydream.

He stares into the blue sky, hesitantly tearing his watch from the seeds to the girl’s face. “Can’t you find one yourself?”

She doesn’t scowl, or purse her lips, or ball her hands into fists on her hips. She just stares at him. “Yes…but I want you to choose my flower.”

He shrugs and begins his hunt. It doesn’t take him long to locate a dying dandelion. He makes sure its halo of whitish fuzz is a nearly perfect orb around the stem. This wish will be important, he is sure. He reverently hands the flower to her, and she accepts it carefully. “Thank you,” she says, and her voice is small.

He watches her as she purses her lips into a circle, watches as she bends to reach the head, as she pauses to touch her nose to the soft down. And without hesitating, she lets loose a trickle of air; slower than before, gentler, so she can watch the half-invisible petals float through the air. He watches as the seeds spin against the picturesque blue sky and disappear into the unknown.

“Did you wish for something?” she asks the boy, his head still tipped to the horizon.

He turns his head to look at her. “Of course. Did you?”

“Yes.” She pauses. “And I can’t tell you what I wished for, so don’t even think about asking.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he feels himself gathering his defenses. “I wasn’t going to.”

The girl nods and smiles softly. “Good.”

They stare at each other for a moment longer, and the boy isn’t sure whether she’s criticizing his untidy curls, his messy fingers. But then, she’s a sight on her own, her red-black hair wild, her dress stained. And it must be this sight, the sight the two of them make, that sends one of their appointed nurses into a frenzy. She runs down the gently sloping knoll to them, her hands reaching out. “Your Grace! Your Highness!” she cries as she runs, her hands twitching between hiking her skirts to avoid the marshes and clutching them to her breasts in distress.

The two look up, not entirely guiltily. Well, the boy certainly is guilty. The girl is defiant, wearing a proud, rebellious face (complete with a tiny set of imperial eyebrows) that says plainly _I’m standing barefoot in a stream. What are you going to do about it?_

Desperate shouts of “Your Grace! Your Highness!” have become a constant din. The boy turns to the girl, an apology for the nurse already written across his face. He lifts his hands, ready to persuade the girl. “Maybe we should go back.”

“Why?” The girls studies the approaching nurse, who’s stopped to inspect a waterlogged shoe. “She’s nearly here anyway. We wouldn’t want to make her run for nothing.”

The boy shrugs. This is as good logic as any. And the girl is right; the nurse appears in front of them in a matter of moments. “Your Grace! Your Highness!” she continues to shriek. “The state of you! Your Grace, what’ve you done to your dress? And you’re positively soaked…” She fusses over them both, attempting to tame the boy’s curls, much to his annoyance and the girl’s amusement. She giggles as the boy tries to wriggle out from under the nurse’s grip. She’s muttering furiously under her breath. “…you’ll have to change, and the feast in an _hour_ …” She whips a lacy handkerchief out of an unseen pocket, rubbing the girl’s face to get off the freckles of mud.

“Sorry, Maggie,” the boy murmurs sheepishly, eye trained on the ground.

“Sorry won’t clean up two troublesome children,” the nurse spits back. “Your Graces.”

The girl harrumphs moodily, resting her hands on her hips. “Well, it’s not _our_ fault. It’s my birthday, and I was bored. They sent us out to _play_ , didn’t they? What did they expect we were going to do?”

Maggie eyes her as she moves onto the boy, handkerchief (which is now looking less lacy and more sadly bedraggled. Also, there’s been a drastic color change) posed and ready to rub. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Your Grace, there’s not much anyone _can_ expect you to do.”

Satisfied with the impromptu (and slightly horrible; the boy can still feel dirt particles under his fingernails, green weed stems tucked secretly in his hair) bathing, the nurse leads the boy and the girl back up the slope to the castle, pausing every once in a while to scrabble after the girl’s hand and admonish her when she stops to pick up an interesting pebble or comment on a bird’s unique song.

The nurse shoos them into their respective rooms, calling after other nurses so they can wrangle the squirming children into tubs full of soap. It takes longer than it should, mostly because the girl hates being told what to do and suffering a bath is probably relatively low on her list of things she wishes she does on her birthday. But she’s already made her wish. 

They are hurried out of the tub and into fresh clothes, the girl receiving a stern look from a nurse, which she responds to with an irritated sniff. They are ushered into the Hall, where a long table has been set with festoons and shining utensils and sat next to each other, the boy on the right of his father, the girl on the right of the boy. As the girl takes her seat, the king raises a lazy hand to the musicians and her birthday celebrations begin.

She is immediately smiling, her bath forgotten as she remembers her birthday. The gifts begin to pile up on the table, new dresses, jewelry (most of it so ghastly expensive it appears ugly in the boy’s eyes), a softly built pony, some books (most of which lay forgotten beneath the table, to the boy’s incredulity. Some of them looked really interesting…). And finally, it is the boy’s turn to present his gift to her as her husband-to-be. He wonders whether his gift is stupid, whether he should’ve stuck with the easy route and purchased a necklace from one of the castle’s artisans…but it’s too late, and she’s turned to face him in her chair.

He clears his throat nervously. “Um…I made this…for—for you…” he mutters, and he hands her a package wrapped in soft cloth. She makes quick work of the cloth, unwrapping it greedily. She stops, completely still, as she sets her sights on her gift. The boy squirms lower in his chair. She doesn’t like it. He should’ve gone with the jewelry. Girls like jewelry, don’t they? His mother seems to enjoy it.

“Wow…” breathes the girl, raising the gift up to the light. It is a pearly white whittling knife, the hilt set with small gems. “You _made_ this?”

“I had help.” He scratches his head. “A lot of help. But you were always saying how you wished you could join my fencing lessons, and I thought maybe a weapon—even a small one, I mean it’s really just a decorative knife—would be good. Do you—do you like it?”

“Yes. Yes! It’s amazing!” the girl answers, never taking her eyes off the delicate blade.

She is so beautiful, her eyes raised to her knife, her thick eyelashes tangling in themselves in some moments. She is beautiful without the boy even noticing it. But he will notice it later. There will be plenty of time for the boy to recognize the girl’s beauty. But even then, at that tender age, the boy feels something, something enough to make him lean over and say, “But that’s not all I got you.” And without thinking, the boy moves his lips closer to her cheek, and soon his lips are actually _touching_ her cheek; they are _on_ her cheek. And he keeps them there for another second, thinking how odd the feel of skin on lips is. But she turns her head to look at him straight on, and his lips are caressing air instead of skin. “Happy birthday,” the boy says.

****His cheeks are flushed bright red, and desperately hot with embarrassment. But she only smiles at him, her lips slowly tightening around her small teeth as they rise upward. Leaning into his shoulder, she ignores the pointed glare given by the king. “I got my wish,” she breathes into his ear.

He pretends not to be affected by this, but he can feel a sort of warm tickling in his stomach, and his red cheeks widen into a smile. He puts his mouth against her ear, and she leans closer helpfully. “What was your other wish?” he asks, grinning.

She returns his smile with a wickedly amused beam. “I’ll never tell.”


End file.
